


Farsighted

by devabbi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aging, Established Relationship, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Mid-Forties, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28530102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devabbi/pseuds/devabbi
Summary: Draco Lucius Malfoy was the result of thousands of years of aristocratic breeding. He was a perfect specimen of the male form. His hair hadn’t grayed in the slightest. He was the healthiest forty-six-year-old in all of Britain – no, all of Europe. The hemisphere, perhaps.He didn’t need glasses.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 112





	Farsighted

Draco entered his study and dropped a stack of parchment on the desktop. He paused with one hand on the back of his chair and eyed the inconspicuous, black dragon leather case on the blotter. His wife had ordered them a week ago – she must have paid extra to get them delivered before he changed his mind. He pivoted toward the sideboard instead. He poured himself a tumbler of firewhisky and spared the case another disdainful look across the room.

He could hear her now. “ _Draco, we talked about this. You know you need them. Just try them out, and if they don’t make your life easier, I’ll_ _wear your favorite_ _skirt_ _._ ”

He sneered. He was the result of thousands of years of aristocratic breeding. He was a perfect specimen of the male form. His hair hadn’t grayed in the slightest. He was the healthiest forty-six-year-old in all of Britain – no, all of Europe. The hemisphere, perhaps.

He didn’t need _glasses_.

Draco looked to the shelf of books closest to where he stood, seeking out a familiar tome. He had to squint at the titles and took a grudging step closer to the shelf to make out the words. He cast another glare over his shoulder at the leather case.

“ _It’s because you’ve spent years in your dimly-lit lab. I’_ _ve_ _told you to open the curtains every now and then._ ”

He huffed. He was a _Malfoy_. He might not be the _young_ master Malfoy anymore, but he was still young.

He _didn’t_ need glasses.

He located the book he was after and pulled it from the shelf, found the ribbon marking his place, and flipped it open. As he sauntered back to his desk, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sideboard and swore to see the book not six inches from his face. When had it gotten so bad?

Snapping the book shut, he tossed it down on the desk and flopped into the black leather armchair. Again, he glared at the case, but this time, he reached for it and flipped it open, holding it at arm’s length for inspection. The rectangular lenses were rimmed along the bottom with silver wire. He swore softly – they looked like old man glasses. He supposed he could be thankful that they didn’t look anything like Potter’s.

With a steadying swallow of firewhisky, he lifted the glasses out of their case and unfolded them for closer inspection. Caelum, Leo and Lyra were going to have a field day with these. He took a deep breath and resolved to just bite the bullet, as his wife would say. He perched them on his nose and looked down at the stack of parchment on the desktop. The script was clear as day, no squinting or leaning in required.

Damn. She’d be insufferable.

He stood and went back to the mirror, studying himself. She had at least chosen frames that didn’t look like his late father’s, for which he was thankful, but the resemblance was still there. He’d kept his hair trimmed short, above his collar, and trained himself to keep a more open, bland expression than his father’s default disdain, but he couldn’t escape the misfortune of being his father’s spitting image. He’d done what he could to distance himself. He spared a moment to frown at his father’s portrait across the room.

Draco pulled them off and set them delicately on the blotter as he sank back into the chair behind the desk. He looked across the room and could picture his father at the shelves, pulling his spectacles off to give him an annoyed look at the interruption. Draco looked down at the glasses again and promised himself that they would never leave the study. He put them back on and returned to the parchment on his desk, despising every second of the ease with which he was reading.

“Well.”

Draco looked up over his glasses at his wife, who stood in the doorway grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “Don’t,” he said in warning.

She ignored him and crossed the room, folding her arms over his shoulders, her curls tumbling over with her as she kissed his temple. “I think they make you look distinguished,” she said. “Smarter, even.”

“Flattery won’t help you,” he replied, laying a hand over her forearm. His eyes drifted to his father’s portrait.

Hermione followed his gaze and squeezed his shoulders. “I see the problem,” she said. “Perhaps I could order gold frames instead?” He snorted. “Muggles sometimes use a thing called contact lenses. They’re small lenses that fit directly on your eyes.”

“That sounds horrifying.”

Hermione giggled. He’d said the same thing about the vast majority of muggle medical procedures that she’d ever described.

He pulled the glasses off and rubbed his eyes. His pureblood manners won out over sarcasm and he said, “Thank you for ordering these. They have made a difference.”

She kissed his temple again and said, “You’re welcome, love.” Her hand toyed with his collar. He sat back in his seat and tilted his head back to look at her and kiss her coy smile. “I think I know how to get you to appreciate these.”

“Oh?” he said, dragging his knuckles up and down her forearm.

She reached over his shoulder and carefully put his glasses back on his face. “Professor,” she purred, “I have a confession to make.”


End file.
